


Roses and Porcelain

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Female Montparnasse, Genderswap, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 22:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1620020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine takes what Montparnasse has to offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roses and Porcelain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Slip of a Cup](https://archiveofourown.org/works/875513) by [StripySock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock). 



> Based on Stripy's "Slip of a Cup", a fantastic study of genderswapped Montparnasse and her relationship (such as it is) with Éponine. Thanks so much to Pliny for encouragement and beta, and of course to Stripy for letting me play with her fic; I really hope you'll like it!

They are standing in front of Montparnasse's broad mirror, the most extravagant piece of furniture she owns. Éponine in her rags, Montparnasse in pale blue silk which sets off her hue and hair. Two devils, separated only by their looks: Éponine acknowledges as much. If she were Montparnasse, she'd want to gaze at herself too. 

Montparnasse grips Éponine's waist from behind. Her skin is as pale and smooth as an unsoiled sheet; her hands are clean and neatly-kept, the blood on them invisible. She is fastidious in her habits, more fastidious still whenever she departs from them. 

Éponine isn't certain, however, to what extent she should be considered an exception in Montparnasse's string of lovers. True, Montparnasse likes them innocent, so everybody says, but whether she also likes them pretty is a matter of debate. Certainly they should not be beautiful, at least not enough to rival Montparnasse herself, with her rosy mouth and dark lashes and porcelain skin. 

Montparnasse would covet nothing about the Lark but her purse, Éponine thinks, and finds some comfort in this. She herself does not envy Montparnasse her beauty; there is nothing good about it. And yet, if Éponine were still pretty, she's certain she would resemble Montparnasse rather than the Lark. She wonders what Montparnasse would say to such an idea. 

"You look awful," Montparnasse says, almost kindly. Her lips brush over Éponine's temple. "I should get you a new dress."

Éponine shivers -- from the touch, the words, the chill in the room. "Would you?" she says warily. "And how?"

"How do you think?" Montparnasse laughs. "I'm sure you know my methods well enough by now." She puts her cheek to Éponine's, grinning at their reflexions. "You're hardly that much of an innocent, Éponine Thénardier."

She doesn't reply, only tilts her head and raises her eyebrows, and Montparnasse laughs again. 

"Poor little 'Ponine," she murmurs, her voice low in Éponine's ear. "You'd prefer not to know, wouldn't you?" Her right hand glides over Éponine's breast. "Wouldn't you?"

Montparnasse's mockery would sting if Éponine didn't recognise it for what it is: an absurd display of something that is as close as Montparnasse could ever get to affection. Still she doesn't reply, unwilling to grant Montparnasse this small victory. Montparnasse punishes her, or perhaps rewards her, with a sharp tweak of her nipple before stepping away. "Undress."

She holds Montparnasse's gaze in the mirror as she unfastens the rag of a blouse she's wearing, letting it slide down and off her shoulders with a shrug. The tattered skirt comes off just as easily. She steps out of it and kicks it aside before pulling her sad excuse of a chemise over her head. Seeing herself and her clothing with Montparnasse's eyes, she feels no pity, no bashfulness, only rueful scorn. 

"Wash," Montparnasse says, turning away from her and sashaying across the floor, to the alcove with the bed. Éponine's eyes follow her for a second, and then she picks up the soaked rag from the basin and cleans herself as well as she can. At least partly intended as an insult, it's a favour nonetheless. For long moments she relishes the feel of the wet cloth on her face, her arms, her body, leaving stripes of pink flesh in the grime. 

She sniffs the cloth and smiles. Rose-scented water for dirty little Éponine Thénardier. She knows better than to comment on it, though; Montparnasse is in a good mood today but still not above throwing her out in a huff. And Éponine doesn't want to leave. She wants to lie on a bed, if only for a moment; she wants to receive whatever pleasure Montparnasse bestows upon her, and to give some in return, if Montparnasse allows it. She wants to touch Montparnasse's smooth white skin, kiss her soft pink lips, and marvel at the cold beauty she does not want for herself. 

Éponine takes her time washing, and by the time she is done and turns towards the bed, she halfway expects Montparnasse to be cross with her. Instead, Montparnasse looks almost pleased, as if Éponine's slow cleansing ritual were some sort of spectacle, something done for Montparnasse's pleasure alone -- and in Montparnasse's eyes, that is only to be expected. Her lips curve into a slow smile. "Come here."

Éponine obeys, crossing the floor to where Montparnasse is lying sprawled upon the bed, naked now, all spread out for Éponine's admiration. Her breasts, which she keeps flattened and restrained when dressing as a man, are full and round; her thighs, parted to reveal the dark mass of curls between her legs, are firm and smooth. Éponine could never hope to be her equal in this respect, but an equal is not what Montparnasse wants. 

She climbs onto the bed, next to Montparnasse, who grins, curls a hand around her neck, and tugs her down for a kiss. It's wet and hot and full of teeth, as it always is. Their naked bodies are flush together and Éponine presses closer, not caring that Montparnasse might laugh at her clinginess -- let her laugh, let her mock; Éponine craves the contact and the warmth, these few minutes in a clean bed smelling of roses, the power she has to make Montparnasse moan. 

"You are learning," Montparnasse murmurs, shifting a little under her,"it seems." She pulls away from Éponine's kisses, a challenging gleam in her eyes. "Go on, then."

Éponine traces a pathway down her neck, lingering only a little, knowing better than to leave marks. She palms one of Montparnasse's breasts, feeling the softness, the weight of it. Her hand ventures further, taking its time sliding down Montparnasse's flank, the gentle curve of her back, finally resting on her backside. Montparnasse stirs impatiently under her, but gives no directions -- it's up to Éponine to prove herself, then, to make that smug superiority shatter apart.

With this thought to spur her on she continues downwards, placing her hands firmly on Montparnasse's hips to hold them still. Montparnasse spreads her thighs languidly, and Éponine gets to work.

She noses at the curls, mouthing along the cleft before she dips inside the folds, tasting slick wetness and salt. Montparnasse is eager for this, no matter how much she might behave as if she is doing Éponine a favour; when Éponine's tongue finds the small hard nub, Montparnasse gives a loud moan, spreading her thighs wider. 

"Go on," she says again. Now her voice is breathless, the words far more of a request than a command, and Éponine grants rather than obeys. 

She alternates between circling and pressing, sometimes the flat of her tongue and sometimes the tip, until she has Montparnasse squirming under her, wet and insistent and obviously wanting more. With two fingers she enters Montparnasse and listens for the groan -- "Shit, _Éponine!_ " -- and then she begins to fuck her, carefully at first and then more forcefully, earnestly, matching the rhythm of her fingers with that of her tongue as well as she can, Montparnasse's frantic panting the guide that tells her that she is doing this right. Because she wants to, because she can; there is nothing in this for her but a bed and rose-scented water and Montparnasse's fingers tangling in her hair, and the promise that maybe, afterwards, if Montparnasse is pleased --

"Shit," Montparnasse gasps out again, her thighs quivering against Éponine's cheeks. "Fuck, Éponine, don't stop..."

This is what Montparnasse sounds like when she begs, Éponine thinks, relishing the knowledge. This is what she sounds like when she pleads, broken, desperate for Éponine's hands and tongue and lips. She has her hand sunk to the knuckles in Montparnasse's hot flesh; now she twists her fingers, almost cruelly, and Montparnasse cries out, clenches around her, hips bucking, hands tugging at Éponine's hair so hard it hurts. 

After a few moments, Montparnasse pulls at her hair again. "Come here," she says, and Éponine crawls to lie beside her, letting herself be drawn into the kiss, letting herself be soft, now -- as Montparnasse licks her own moisture from Éponine's mouth, as Montparnasse's hand finds its way between Éponine's legs, strong and certain, as Montparnasse makes her shudder and gasp in turn, leaving her boneless and weak. 

It is almost evening. The sun hasn't quite set, but still Éponine is tired. She curls up under the sheets, wary of disturbing Montparnasse, and rubs her cheek against the pillow. Clean cloth, scent of rose water. Her parents don't know where she is. 

Montparnasse stirs beside her. "I'm going out," she says, and Éponine steels herself against the order to get up and leave. She doesn't move, though. She won't move before she has to. 

But Montparnasse orders no such thing. She slips out of bed and walks over to wash her face and hands, naked and unashamed. Éponine watches her get dressed, full breasts disappearing under the binding, soft curves flattened by the corset. When she is fully clothed, she comes back to the bed, patting Éponine on the cheek. "You'll find your way out," she says, smiling. 

Éponine wets her lips. "When?"

Montparnasse stills, a considering look on her face. "Whenever," she says at last. "If you're here when I get back I'll make you try on a dress or two, I suppose."

It is not a kindness, Éponine knows. But perhaps it is a favour. She listens to Montparnasse's fading footsteps on the stairs, and then she gazes out the window and tries to imagine Marius in his bed, and then she closes her eyes, buries her head in the pillow, and dozes off.

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the awesome illustration by Atov [here!](http://atovv.tumblr.com/post/91431210064/commission-for-miss-m-illustration-for-her)


End file.
